Ex Machina (2015, Alex Garland) Ex Machina begins with some unspecified dweeb winning some unspecified online competition and getting airlifted to a remote Ikea-type deeply impersonal development facility where Oscar Issac the Unpleasant Genius needs someone to challenge his latest beta AI consciousness. Or does he? I'll stop right there because the premise and your ultimate opinion of this yarn are heavily reliant on your unassuming receptivity. It's enough to say that there are all kinds of timely dick-yanks about Google, R&D culture, device dependancy, gender stuff, human contact deficits etc, and all that is cute and worthy. Like I said, stop now and go watch the fucking thing if you have even half a mind to.
Superficially, Ex Machina ticks all the watch-me boxes. I’ve never really seen anything exactly like it before, and that is an unqualified compliment, but I don’t think I want to see anything like it again and that's down to a number of factors. It definitely aims to tweak and your specific reaction will hinge on your individual sensitivities; personally I detest the concept of mobile, transactional AI, so there's that no-thanks knee jerk from the start. Also: misogyny- Ex Machina is misogynistic in that gross, sneaky, half-pseudo post-modern observational way that masquerades as commentary whilst walking and quacking and pandering like an offensive duck. It could be argued that they were making a point, that I should have allowed myself to relate to a femmebot's plight blah blah but whatever; it is gratuitous, and the effect on my female self is the same. I didn't fucking appreciate it. At all.
Superficially, Ex Machina ticks all the watch-me boxes. I’ve never really seen anything exactly like it before, and that is an unqualified compliment, but I don’t think I want to see anything like it again and that's down to a number of factors. It definitely aims to tweak and your specific reaction will hinge on your individual sensitivities; personally I detest the concept of mobile, transactional AI, so there's that no-thanks knee jerk from the start. Also: misogyny- Ex Machina is misogynistic in that gross, sneaky, half-pseudo post-modern observational way that masquerades as commentary whilst walking and quacking and pandering like an offensive duck. It could be argued that they were making a point, that I should have allowed myself to relate to a femmebot's plight blah blah but whatever; it is gratuitous, and the effect on my female self is the same. I didn't fucking appreciate it. At all.
It's not like I couldn't have gotten past those rather visceral reactions if it had taken me anywhere really new or valuable. The script is fine and the concept is relatively intelligent. But while it's perfectly competent technically, EM's neither pretty enough to be visually consuming nor original enough in its promethean/frankenstein do-over to move me beyond yep, see what you did there. It's a very narrow thing too, droning away with this monotonal hum which coupled with the other distasteful aspects is just fucking annoying, like something buzzing loudly against a window on a sweaty day. Punchable and unrelatable spring to mind when I contemplate its protagonists, and I don't mean to disparage the performances; Gleeson as the hapless noodle is absolutely fine and Sonoya Mizuno and Alicia Vikander are really great, the latter a study in understated detailing, infusing her frustrated automaton with a sophisticated physicality, exploring her pliant, porous limitations and even answering some of my objections to her depiction. Issac is... okay, which is disappointing, delivering his twisted, blunted genius like something out of a box marked twisted blunted genius, but it is a wee bit difficult to distinguish between the writer’s failings in this character’s respect, and his projection by such a wily salesman.
You should probably see Ex Machina and I wish I had more of its ilk to bitch about. But it made my mouth taste bad- even if it was supposed to, I don’t feel like that was a win for Garland, who also penned the script. In fact I could have saved us both some time and just called it abrasive and icky.
There's quite a lot of room in my heart for abrasive but icky can sling its fucking hook.
There's quite a lot of room in my heart for abrasive but icky can sling its fucking hook.
Only Lovers Left Alive (2013, Jim Jarmusch) Jarmusch is a polarising mofo but love him or hate him, I think we can all agree that there are worse things to be. He is a greatly beloved slacker mascot and an Ornament of the Other Way, and I for one have enjoyed his shit for most of my adult life. That’s not to say I’m an unquestioning JJ apologist- I walked out of The Limits of Control, for instance, and sometimes want to drown Down By Law in a puddle- so it’s still safe to consider this an actual critique. Only Lovers Left Alive took the best part of a decade to crawl out of development hell and Jarmusch has talked at length about the impossibility of getting left-field shit funded these days, so I won’t get into that, despite the fact that films like this are suffocating canaries in a douche-infested coal mine. Which should give us all a lot of pause.
From a purely commerciral POV it's not difficult to see why investors might have demurred; Only Lovers Left Alive is a snail-paced, half-stoned shuffle through the glitter, lint and otherness of expert-level boho, a kingdom so sadly eroded by the rapacious requirements of modern living that no one under 40 will probably know what the fuck Jarmusch is eulogising. This isn't everyone's cup of bananas. But that's cool.
From a purely commerciral POV it's not difficult to see why investors might have demurred; Only Lovers Left Alive is a snail-paced, half-stoned shuffle through the glitter, lint and otherness of expert-level boho, a kingdom so sadly eroded by the rapacious requirements of modern living that no one under 40 will probably know what the fuck Jarmusch is eulogising. This isn't everyone's cup of bananas. But that's cool.
Adam and Eve are two medium-ancient vampires splitting their endless time between various old-skool points of international interest, the former (Tom Hiddleston) troubled savant consort to Tilda Swinton's eternal, immutable muse. They spectate the decline of civil standards with varying degrees of concern, pursue their obscure passions and utter a number of trenchant maxims. If you need more, it is there, but you'll have to dig for it.
Jarmusch's ride-along style and vampirism per se are the perfect vehicle and metaphor for the kind of leisurely creativity that is almost extinct. Proud custodians of mother-of-toilet-seat guitars and other practitioners will deeply appreciate Jim's loving documentation; rolling through the D, tinkering with vintage amps, sheltering one's genius against popular acclaim, books, evicting arrivistes, inhaling Tangier, competitive disinterest at shitty bars. Also the futile bitterness of loss, that empty grasp as one's slender cohort of like minds is whittled down by pitiless time.
Jarmusch's ride-along style and vampirism per se are the perfect vehicle and metaphor for the kind of leisurely creativity that is almost extinct. Proud custodians of mother-of-toilet-seat guitars and other practitioners will deeply appreciate Jim's loving documentation; rolling through the D, tinkering with vintage amps, sheltering one's genius against popular acclaim, books, evicting arrivistes, inhaling Tangier, competitive disinterest at shitty bars. Also the futile bitterness of loss, that empty grasp as one's slender cohort of like minds is whittled down by pitiless time.
Only Lovers Left Alive is beautifully arranged and captured. I didn’t have a problem with its doodling trajectory nor its obscure preoccupations since such things exist to chasten our priorities. But let's set all indulgence aside and admit OLLA should have brought a little more to the table, script-wise, for something so long in gestation. Some of it feels ad-libbed which wasn't really a problem in itself; for me there were occasional performance wobbles, Adam in particular yearning for the greater heft and projection the recused Michael Fassbender would have brought to the role.
Hiddleston's no slouch and he brought a nice bit of subtlety to the table but Tilda munches all the fucking scenery unless robustly directed and counterweighted by another supercommanding presence. John Hurt shows how that's done in his turn as an ailing Christopher Marlowe, patron saint of reluctant awesomeness, and Mia Wasikowska is precisely the right kind of naughty interloping fluff. So no real complaints with the personnel.
We both loved Only Lovers Left Alive. Jarmusch’s films are like affirmations written on your arm with glitter pen for when we wake up the next day. There will always be Universal scale. And probably water in Detroit. Some things are eternal despite our fears for them. (Great soundtrack too).
We both loved Only Lovers Left Alive. Jarmusch’s films are like affirmations written on your arm with glitter pen for when we wake up the next day. There will always be Universal scale. And probably water in Detroit. Some things are eternal despite our fears for them. (Great soundtrack too).
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